The high moral character

“Now isn’t he a daisy?” exclaimed Roy, who could scarcely have been
more pleased if the wheel had belonged to himself. “Full nickeled,
ball bearings, adjustable saddle, safety bar, Buffalo tool bag and
lamp. Every thing complete, of course, for your Uncle Joe doesn’t do
things by halves. Now, Joe, you can ride and Art and I will go afoot.”

“Say,” cried Arthur, who had taken the card from Roy’s hand. “What
does this mean? ‘There are two others like me in town?’ There wasn’t a
bike in Mount Airy when we left.”

“That’s so. I wonder who have the others. I wish you had, for I don’t
want to be the only one of our crowd to get my head broke.”

“Thank you for being so disinterested,” said Roy. “But if it is all
the same to you I prefer to have my head as it is. But really, I must
go home now. Bring him out this afternoon and let us see him throw

When the boys went down stairs Joe stepped into the sitting-room to
thank Uncle Joe for his beautiful gift. He came out looking more
surprised and delighted than ever.

“Now that’s an uncle for a fellow to have,” said he. “I shouldn’t
wonder if you fellows would find mates to my machine when you get
home. I am going with you to see.”

“What makes you think that?” exclaimed Roy and Arthur in a breath.

“Why, I told Uncle Joe that you two had kindly invited me to come out
where you could see me thrown, and he said you had better look out or
you might be thrown yourselves. Now what did he mean by that?”

The eager boys did not stop to decide, but hurried back to the skiff
and pulled for Roy’s home at the top of their speed. There another
warm reception awaited them, and sure enough a mate to Joe Wayring’s
wheel was found in Roy’s room; and tied to the brake was a card
stating that it was a present from his mother. Of course the other
wheel was found at Arthur’s home. The three were so nearly alike that
if it had not been for the names and numbers engraved upon them it
would have been difficult to tell them apart.

You may be sure that canoeing, boat-sailing, and every other sport
connected with the water, was at a discount now. During the next two
weeks the three friends were rarely seen upon the streets. They were
practicing behind the evergreens on Mr. Wayring’s lawn, and every time
the clanging of one of the gates gave notice of the approach of a
visitor they would seize their wheels and run them around the corner
of the house out of sight.

“No; we are not ashamed of them,” said Joe, in reply to a question his
uncle propounded to him one day. “We are ashamed of our awkwardness,
and don’t mean to give any of the fellows a chance to laugh at us.
Wait until we can ride them ten feet without falling off, and then we
will go outside the gate.”

It did not take the boys very long to attain to that degree of
proficiency, for I am told that riding a wheel is easy enough after
you learn to put a little confidence in yourself; but the boys had
promised one another that they would not go upon the street until they
could “get on pedal-mount,” and then they would appear in style, “I
bet you.”

The satisfaction they experienced, and the good time they enjoyed
during their first run about town, amply repaid them for all the
trouble they had taken to learn to ride. One bright afternoon, when
the pleasant drive-ways of Mount Airy were thronged with stylish
coupés and road-wagons drawn by high-stepping horses, Miss Arden and
two of her girl friends, all handsomely mounted, suddenly appeared
among them. By the side of each rode a uniformed wheelman who managed
his steel horse with as much grace and skill as any of the girls
managed hers. Such sights are common enough now, but it was a new
thing in Mount Airy, and the riders attracted a good deal of attention
from admiring friends and excited the ire of the drug-store crowd.

“Didn’t we say we would come out in style when we got a good ready?”
said Arthur, as he and his companions dismounted at the post-office
after seeing the girls home. “I felt a little nervous at first, but I
am all right for the future. Of course I expect to get some falls, but
this day’s experience has satisfied me that I can stay in the saddle
if I only keep my wits about me.”

The ice having been broken, so to speak, the boys no longer kept
behind the evergreens, but appeared upon the streets every day and
enjoyed many a pleasant run. Their wheels proved to be so very
accommodating and so easily managed that they wondered they had ever
been afraid of them. Of course they began to try tricks. They wouldn’t
have been live boys if they had not. First, they practiced at making
their wheels stand perfectly still; and when they could do that they
tried something else. Of course they subscribed for wheelmen’s
journals, and in one of them read of a rider who could bring his wheel
to a stop, get out of his saddle, open his lamp which he had
previously lighted, ignite his cigar, close the lamp and mount again
without ever touching the ground or tipping his machine over. They had
any number of such examples which they regarded as well worthy of
emulation, and Uncle Joe was heard to declare that it was as good as a
circus to stand at one of the windows and watch the performances that
went on in his brother’s back yard.

You may be sure that these three boys did not long remain alone in
their glory. Other wheels of different patterns began making their
appearance, and one day Tom Bigden and his cousins rode gaily through
the village, clad in a uniform of their own invention, and which, it
is needless to say, was entirely different from the one adopted by Joe
Wayring and his chums. Did this mean that there were to be other rival
organizations in town? It looked like it. Every body talked wheel; and
the boy who didn’t have one was going to get it just as soon as he
could make up his mind which was the best. Canoe literature went out
of fashion. The _Amateur Athlete_ and _L. A. W. Bulletin_ were the
only papers that were worth reading, and songs of the wheel were the
only songs that were worth singing. Even on the school-ground, or when
the players were taking their positions in a game of ball, it was no
uncommon thing to hear some fellow strike up:

“Away we go on our wheels, boys,
As free as the morning breeze;
And over our pathway steals, boys,
The music of wind-swept trees.
And ’round by the woods and over the hill,
Where the ground so gently swells,
From a dozen throats in echoing notes
The wheelman’s melody wells.”

Although Joe Wayring and his friends had so many agreeable things to
occupy their minds the events of the summer were not wholly forgotten.
When Joe saw a canoeist shooting up the lake, with his arms bared to
the shoulder and his dripping paddle flashing in the sunlight, he
longed to launch his “old canvas-back” and try conclusions with him.
And when Indian summer came, and a school-fellow showed him a string
of muscalonge or pickerel he had caught in some isolated pond to which
he had penetrated with the aid of his light draft canoe, Joe wished
most heartily that Matt Coyle had not been such an adept at stealing

“I’ll never see my canoe again,” said he, with a sigh of resignation.
“I can’t say that I hope he will drown Matt, but I _do_ hope he will
duck him so many times and in such dangerous places that the next time
he sees a canvas canoe he will run from it. What’s become of him any

That was the question that had been in every body’s mouth ever since
the day when the two constables returned and reported that Matt Coyle
and the six thousand dollars and Joe Wayring’s canoe must have sunk
into the ground or gone up in a balloon, for no traces of them could
be found, although every thicket in the Indian Lake country had been
looked into. The squatter’s wife and boys were luxuriating in New
London jail, awaiting the result of the search. As soon as Mr. Wayring
and Uncle Joe read the startling article in the _Times_ they offered a
large reward for Matt’s apprehension, and the former wrote to Joe to
start for home without the loss of an hour. But it took a letter a
long time to go to Indian Lake by the way of New London, and Joe never
received it.

Tom Bigden was in great suspense, and it was a wonder to his cousins
how he ever lived through it. He was utterly astounded when he read
the papers and saw what his last interview with Matt Coyle had led to.
His secret weighed so heavily on his mind that he could not carry it
alone, and so he made a clean breast of it to Loren and Ralph, who
could not have been more amazed if Tom had knocked them down. Of
course they wanted to help him in his extremity, and the advice they
gave was enough to drive him frantic. One day they were both clearly
of opinion that he had better leave the State for a while and let the
trouble blow over. Again, they thought it would be a good plan for him
to take his father into his confidence; and perhaps half an hour
afterward they would declare that the only thing he could do was to go
to a lawyer about it. Tom listened and trembled, but did nothing. How
would he have felt had he known that the boy he had tried to get into
trouble was the one who was destined to help him out of his?

“Rumor says that the old woman and both the boys have told all they
know; and I have sometimes thought, by the way folks look at me now
and then, that there is more afloat than we have heard of,” Tom often
said, rubbing his hands nervously together the while. “Don’t I wish I
knew whether or not they have mentioned my name in connection with
this miserable business?”

“I don’t see what possessed you to tell Matt that you had seen the
valise in Joe Wayring’s basket,” said Ralph. “If you had had the first
glimmering of common sense you would have known better.”

“So I would,” assented Tom, who was so frightened and dejected that he
could not get angry at any thing that was said to him. “But I didn’t
suppose he would blunder right off after Joe and do something to get
himself into the papers. I am glad he didn’t tell Joe Wayring that I
put the idea into his head, for it would have been just like Joe and
his crowd to spread it far and wide. They are jealous of me, and will
go to any lengths to injure me.”

The short Indian summer passed away all too quickly for the Mount Airy
boys, the autumnal rains put a stop to wheeling, and finally Old
Winter spread his mantle over the village and surrounding hills and
took the lake and all the streams in his icy grasp. When the boys came
out of their snug retreats they brought with them their sleds, skates,
and toboggans. Tom Bigden was around as usual, but every one noticed
that he did not take as deep an interest in things as he formerly did,
or “shoot off his chin” quite so frequently. He permitted Joe’s
sailboat to rest in peace, and Joe was very glad of that, and often
congratulated himself and companions on the fact that they had not
once mentioned Tom’s name in connection with the events that had
happened at the spring-hole.

The holidays drew near, and Roy Sheldon proposed something that had
not been thought of for two or three years—a three days’ camp in the
woods between Christmas and New Year’s, and pickerel fishing through
the ice. Sherwin’s Pond would be a good camping ground, and the mouth
of Indian River was the place to go for pickerel. The idea was no
sooner suggested than it was adopted; and on the 27th of December the
three boys set off down the twelve-mile carry, walking in Indian file,
and dragging behind them a toboggan which was loaded to its utmost
capacity with extra clothing, blankets, provisions, cartridges, and
every thing else they were likely to need during their stay in the
woods. By two o’ clock that afternoon they were snugly housed in a
commodious lean-to, whose whole front was open to a roaring fire, and
debating some knotty points while they rested from their labors. Who
would put on his skates, cut a hole through the ice, and catch a fish
for dinner? who would cook the fish after it was caught? and who would
cut the night’s supply of firewood?

“I wouldn’t mind catching the fish, but I don’t much like the job of
cutting through ice that must be all of ten inches or a foot thick,”
yawned Roy. “But somebody must do it, I suppose, so I’ll make a try at
it. Nothing short of a sight of Matt Coyle coming around the point
could put much energy into me.”

“I was thinking about him,” said Joe, as he picked up an ax and
whet-stone. “We thought we were safely out of his reach when we made
our camp at No-Man’s Pond, and yet he found us easily enough. I wonder
if we shall have a visit from him to-day.”

“Hardly,” replied Arthur. “Tom Bigden isn’t around to tell him that
we’ve six thousand dollars stowed away among our luggage.”

Having mustered up energy enough to get upon his feet, Roy fastened on
his skates, took a “water-scope” under his arm, put an ice-chisel on
his shoulder, and disappeared behind the point of which he had spoken,
leaving his companions to cut wood for the night. The mouth of Indian
River, so turbulent and furious the last time Roy saw it, was now a
sheet of glaring ice, over which he moved with long, graceful strokes.
He stopped a hundred yards or so below the pond, and went to work with
his chisel. It was a twenty minutes’ task to cut a hole through the
ice and bail out the pieces, and when that had been done Roy pulled
the cape of his heavy coat over his head to shut out all the light,
and brought the water-scope into play. It was a wooden box two feet
long and six inches square at one end, while the other widened out
sufficiently to admit a boy’s face. In the smaller end was a piece of
window glass, which Roy was careful to wipe with his glove before he
put it into the water. These contrivances, made of heavy tin and
japanned, are kept on sale now at most gun stores, and you can buy one
for a dollar and a quarter; but this one, which Roy made himself,
answered every purpose. With its aid he could locate a bright button
at the bottom of a stream that was twenty feet deep, provided, of
course, that the water was tolerably clear.

Throwing himself flat upon the ice, and drawing the cape of his coat
over his head as I have described, Roy thrust the small end of the box
into the water and buried his face in the other. There was a deep hole
somewhere along that bank in which muscalonge were known to
congregate, and Roy wanted to see if he had hit it. He looked at the
bottom for about five seconds, and then threw back the cape, jerked
the water-scope out of the hole, raised himself upon his knees, and
sent up a yell that was so loud and unearthly that it brought Joe and
Arthur around the point in great haste. They probably thought that Roy
had been attacked by some wild animal, for they held their guns in
their hands and were pushing the cartridges into them.

“Whoop-la!” shouted Roy. “I’ve struck it rich. Joe, I’ve found your
canoe. Don’t believe it, do you? Well, look through that box and tell
me what you see.”

Joe complied without saying a word, and one look was quite enough to
excite him too. Then Arthur took a peep and said:

“Yes, sir; that’s the canoe, and there’s a rifle lashed fast to one of
the thwarts. That’s my blanket—the red one with a blue stripe on the
end. Now what’s to be done?”

“There’s something in that blanket, boys,” said Joe, after he had
taken a second look, “and it is also tied to the canoe. How came those
things at the bottom of the river, and where’s Matt Coyle?”

“And the money,” added Roy.

“We can talk about it while we go back to camp and bring another
chisel, and an ax to enlarge the hole so that we can get the canoe
out, and a rope to haul him up with,” said Arthur. “The sooner we get
to work the sooner we may be able to settle some things. I think that
with three of our largest and strongest fish-hooks fastened into him
we can pull him up so that we can get hold of him.”

The others thought so too, and lost no time in putting the matter to a
test. By their united efforts the hole was quickly enlarged to four
times its original size, the ice was baled out, and in a few minutes
more the campers were angling for a bigger prize than they thought.
Not only three, but half a dozen hooks, two in the hands of each boy,
were fastened somewhere, either in the sides of the canvas canoe or in
the thick blankets that were tied to it, and by careful handling the
whole was brought so near the surface of the water that Roy seized it
and held it fast. Then with a “pull all together” and a “heave-yo!”
the canvas canoe and its valuable cargo, which for four long, dreary
months had lain at the bottom of the river, were hauled upon the ice.

“Now, let’s see what we’ve got,” said Joe, drawing his knife from his
pocket. “Here’s Matt’s rifle to begin with.” As he spoke he cut the
weapon loose and flung it behind him.

“And here’s my blanket,” said Arthur. “And as I shall never use it
again I’ll just—”

Arthur made a vicious cut with his knife as he said this, and the
result was so astounding that the boys were struck dumb and
motionless. A small leather valise slipped out of the rent he made,
and falling upon the ice with considerable force flew open, scattering
a shower of money before their astonished gaze. Roy Sheldon, being the
first to recover himself, danced about like a crazy boy; Arthur thrust
his wet hands into his pockets and whistled softly to himself; and Joe
leaned against the canoe and looked. Then he wheeled about, made the
hole in the blanket larger, and found the other valise. While he was
doing that he discovered and pointed out a gaping wound in my side
which neither he nor his friends had noticed before.

“To my mind that explains every thing,” said Roy, bringing his wild
war-dance to a close and acting more like his sensible self again.
“Matt Coyle braved something that we were afraid to tackle, and got
himself snagged and sunk by it. He tried to get into the pond and went
to the bottom instead. You can see that he expected a capsize, for
he’s got every thing tied fast.”

“Did Matt go to the bottom with the canoe?” inquired Joe.

“That depends upon whether or not he was a good swimmer,” answered

“I should say it depended more on whether or not the river was as ugly
on the day he came along here as it was when we saw it,” replied
Arthur. “If it was, the chances are that he was drowned; for not one
swimmer in ten could get away from that current after it got a good
grip on him. Now, let’s pick up the money, unload the canoe, and get
him to the fire before he freezes stiff.”

“This is the second time our fishing has been broken up,” said Joe.
“Well, the winter isn’t half over yet, and it will be easy enough for
us to come back at some future time. But we’ll never catch another
prize like this in Indian River.”

This made it plain to me that my master, whose honest, cheerful face I
was glad to see once more, intended to start for home as soon as he
could get ready. I was glad of it, for if I had been in his place I
should not have cared to camp in so wild a region with six thousand
dollars of another man’s money in my keeping. It made the boys a
trifle nervous, and during the night one of them kept watch while the
others slept. They broke camp after eating breakfast by firelight, and
hardly stopped to rest until the money had been handed over to the
officers of the Mount Airy bank, who straightway telegraphed to the
Irvington people the gratifying intelligence that their missing funds,
which they had given up for lost, had been fished out of the river.
Every one said it was a “lucky find,” and Tom Bigden wondered if any
thing would come of it. If he had been in the bank a day or two
afterward, he might have heard something to astonish him. A messenger
came from Irvington to claim the money, and Joe and his two friends
were invited to meet him. They were able to give him a very accurate
description of the adventures through which the valises had passed
since they left his bank on the third of August filled with stolen
coin, and answered a question or two that was asked them.

“I don’t know what kind of a case we shall be able to make out against
Sam Coyle and the old woman,” said the messenger, “but it’s my opinion
that Jake will have a hard time of it. Are you going to prosecute any
body for stealing your canoe?”

“No, sir,” answered Joe. “Matt was to blame for that, and he is dead;
got drowned when the canoe was snagged and sunk.”

“The boys and the old woman all contend that they wouldn’t be half as
guilty as they are if one Tom Bigden had not advised and urged them on
to commit crime,” continued the messenger. “Do you believe it? We mean
to sift the matter to the bottom, and want to know how to go about

“If I were in your place I’d let all such talk go in one ear and out
at the other,” replied Joe, earnestly. “Tom Bigden has too much sense
to do any thing of the sort.”

“But I have heard it from more than one source.”

“That may be. So have I; but I don’t believe it.”

And this was the boy who was “jealous” of Tom Bigden and his cousins,
and who was ready to “go any lengths to injure” them, was it? You know
how close Tom was to the truth when he made that assertion.

I can not begin to tell you how glad I was to find myself in my old
familiar quarters once more, or give you even an idea of the interest
and curiosity with which I regarded the handsome stranger, the Expert
Columbia, who occupied the recess with me. He wasn’t a bit stuck up
because he had on more nickel than the rest of us could boast of, and
during my time I have found that those who have done great things, or
who are capable of them, seldom are stuck up. This new-comer was as
common as an old shoe, and as ready to talk to me as I was to talk to
him. 1 wasn’t jealous of him for crowding me out of Joe’s affections
for a while, for I knew that Joe would come back to me when he wanted
to run the rapids into Sherwin’s Pond or go a-fishing.

Under my master’s skillful care my wound healed rapidly, and in a few
days I was ready for service again; but of course I was not called
upon. Even when spring opened I was not in demand, but the bicycle
was. He began running the very minute the roads would admit of it, and
kept it up during the entire season, covering an astonishing number of
miles, and saving valuable lives. He met some adventures, too; and
what they were and how he came out of them he will tell you in the
concluding volume of this series, which will be entitled: “The Steel
Horse; or, The Rambles of a Bicycle.”




(Except the Sportsman’s Club Series, Frank Nelson Series and
Jack Hazard Series.).

Each Volume Illustrated. 12mo. Cloth.



The enormous sales of the books of Horatio Alger, Jr., show the
greatness of his popularity among the boys, and prove that he is one
of their most favored writers. I am told that more than half a million
copies altogether have been sold, and that all the large circulating
libraries in the country have several complete sets, of which only two
or three volumes are ever on the shelves at one time. If this is true,
what thousands and thousands of boys have read and are reading Mr.
Alger’s books! His peculiar style of stories, often imitated but never
equaled, have taken a hold upon the young people, and, despite their
similarity, are eagerly read as soon as they appear.

Mr. Alger became famous with the publication of that undying book,
“Ragged Dick, or Street Life in New York.” It was his first book for
young people, and its success was so great that he immediately devoted
himself to that kind of writing. It was a new and fertile field for a
writer then, and Mr. Alger’s treatment of it at once caught the fancy
of the boys. “Ragged Dick” first appeared in 1868, and ever since then
it has been selling steadily, until now it is estimated that about
200,000 copies of the series have been sold.

—_Pleasant Hours for Boys and Girls._

A writer for boys should have an abundant sympathy with them. He
should be able to enter into their plans, hopes, and aspirations. He
should learn to look upon life as they do. Boys object to be written
down to. A boy’s heart opens to the man or writer who understands him.

—From _Writing Stories for Boys_, by Horatio Alger, Jr.



6 vols. BY HORATIO ALGER, JR. $6.00

Ragged Dick. Rough and Ready.
Fame and Fortune. Ben the Luggage Boy.
Mark the Match Boy. Rufus and Rose.


4 vols. BY HORATIO ALGER, JR. $4.00

Tattered Tom. Phil the Fiddler.
Paul the Peddler. Slow and Sure.


4 vols. $4.00

Julius. Sam’s Chance.
The Young Outlaw. The Telegraph Boy.


3 vols. BY HORATIO ALGER, JR. $3.00

Frank’s Campaign. Charlie Codman’s Cruise.
Paul Prescott’s Charge.


4 vols. BY HORATIO ALGER, JR. $4.00

Luck and Pluck. Strong and Steady.
Sink or Swim. Strive and Succeed.


4 vols. $4.00

Try and Trust. Risen from the Ranks.
Bound to Rise. Herbert Carter’s, Legacy.


4 vols. BY HORATIO ALGER, JR. $4.00

Brave and Bold. Shifting for Himself.
Jack’s Ward. Wait and Hope.


3 vols. BY HORATIO ALGER, JR. $3.00

Digging for Gold. Facing the World. In a New World.


3 vols. BY HORATIO ALGER, JR. $3.00

Only an Irish Boy. Adrift in the City.
Victor Vane, or the Young Secretary.


3 vols. BY HORATIO ALGER, JR. $3.00

Frank Hunter’s Peril. Frank and Fearless.
The Young Salesman.


3 vols. BY HORATIO ALGER, JR. $3.00

Walter Sherwood’s Probation. A Boy’s Fortune.
The Young Bank Messenger.


1 vol. BY HORATIO ALGER, JR. $1.00


1 vol. BY HORATIO ALGER, JR. $1.00




When I was sixteen years old I belonged to a composition class. It was
our custom to go on the recitation seat every day with clean slates,
and we were allowed ten minutes to write seventy words on any subject
the teacher thought suited to our capacity. One day he gave out “What
a Man Would See if He Went to Greenland.” My heart was in the matter,
and before the ten minutes were up I had one side of my slate filled.
The teacher listened to the reading of our compositions, and when they
were all over he simply said: “Some of you will make your living by
writing one of these days.” That gave me something to ponder upon, I
did not say so out loud, but I knew that my composition was as good as
the best of them. By the way, there was another thing that came in my
way just then. I was reading at that time one of Mayne Reid’s works
which I had drawn from the library, and I pondered upon it as much as
I did upon what the teacher said to me. In introducing Swartboy to his
readers he made use of this expression: “No visible change was
observable in Swartboy’s countenance.” Now, it occurred to me that if
a man of his education could make such a blunder as that and still
write a book, I ought to be able to do it, too. I went home that very
day and began a story, “The Old Guide’s Narrative,” which was sent to
the _New York Weekly_, and came back, respectfully declined. It was
written on both sides of the sheets but I didn’t know that this was
against the rules. Nothing abashed, I began another, and receiving
some instruction, from a friend of mine who was a clerk in a book
store, I wrote it on only one side of the paper. But mind you, he
didn’t know what I was doing. Nobody knew it; but one day, after a
hard Saturday’s work—the other boys had been out skating on the
brick-pond—I shyly broached the subject to my mother. I felt the need
of some sympathy. She listened in amazement, and then said: “Why, do
you think you could write a book like that?” That settled the matter,
and from that day no one knew what I was up to until I sent the first
four volumes of Gunboat Series to my father. Was it work? Well, yes;
it was hard work, but each week I had the satisfaction of seeing the
manuscript grow until the “Young Naturalist” was all complete.

—_Harry Castlemon in the Writer._



6 vols. BY HARRY CASTLEMON. $6.00

Frank the Young Naturalist. Frank before Vicksburg.
Frank on a Gunboat. Frank on the Lower Mississippi.
Frank in the Woods. Frank on the Prairie.


3 vols. BY HARRY CASTLEMON. $3.00

Frank Among the Rancheros. Frank in the Mountains.
Frank at Don Carlos’ Rancho.


3 vols. BY HARRY CASTLEMON. $3.75

The Sportsman’s Club in the Saddle. The Sportsman’s Club
The Sportsman’s Club Afloat. Among the Trappers.


3 vols. BY HARRY CASTLEMON. $3.75

Snowed up. Frank in the The Boy Traders.


3 vols. BY HARRY CASTLEMON. $3.00

The Buried Treasure. The Boy Trapper. The Mail Carrier.


3 vols. BY HARRY CASTLEMON. $3.00

George in Camp. George at the Fort. George at the Wheel.


3 vols. BY HARRY CASTLEMON. $3.00

Don Gordon’s Shooting The Young Wild Fowlers. Rod and Gun Club.


3 vols. BY HARRY CASTLEMON. $3.00

Tom Newcombe. Go-Ahead. No Moss.


6 vols. BY HARRY CASTLEMON. $6.00

True to His Colors. Marcy the Blockade-Runner.
Rodney the Partisan. Marcy the Refugee.
Rodney the Overseer. Sailor Jack the Trader.


3 vols. BY HARRY CASTLEMON. $3.00

The Houseboat Boys. The Mystery of Lost River Canon.
The Young Game Warden.


3 vols. BY HARRY CASTLEMON. $3.00

Rebellion in Dixie.
A Sailor in Spite of Himself.
The Ten-Ton Cutter.


3 vol. BY HARRY CASTLEMON. $3.00

The Pony Express Rider. The White Beaver.
Carl, The Trailer.


Edward S. Ellis, the popular writer of boys’ books, is a native of
Ohio, where he was born somewhat more than a half-century ago. His
father was a famous hunter and rifle shot, and it was doubtless his
exploits and those of his associates, with their tales of adventure
which gave the son his taste for the breezy backwoods and for
depicting the stirring life of the early settlers on the frontier.

Mr. Ellis began writing at an early age and his work was acceptable
from the first. His parents removed to New Jersey while he was a boy
and he was graduated from the State Normal School and became a member
of the faculty while still in his teens. He was afterward principal of
the Trenton High School, a trustee and then superintendent of schools.
By that time his services as a writer had become so pronounced that he
gave his entire attention to literature. He was an exceptionally
successful teacher and wrote a number of text-books for schools, all
of which met with high favor. For these and his historical
productions, Princeton College conferred upon him the degree of Master
of Arts.

The high moral character, the clean, manly tendencies and the
admirable literary style of Mr. Ellis’ stories have made him as
popular on the other side of the Atlantic as in this country. A
leading paper remarked some time since, that no mother need hesitate
to place in the hands of her boy any book written by Mr. Ellis. They
are found in the leading Sunday-school libraries, where, as may well
be believed, they are in wide demand and do much good by their sound,
wholesome lessons which render them as acceptable to parents as to
their children. All of his books published by Henry T. Coates & Co.
are re-issued in London, and many have been translated into other
languages. Mr. Ellis is a writer of varied accomplishments, and, in
addition to his stories, is the author of historical works, of a
number of pieces of popular music and has made several valuable
inventions. Mr. Ellis is in the prime of his mental and physical
powers, and great as have been the merits of his past achievements,
there is reason to look for more brilliant productions from his pen in
the near future.

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